


Elcors and Elephants

by radio_chatter



Series: The Archives [3]
Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Bisexuality, First Time, M/M, Relationship Study, Reposted Work, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radio_chatter/pseuds/radio_chatter
Summary: The hang up, for lack of better terms, is that Scott had always believed himself to be straight. A straight-laced military boy who liked girls and appreciated a properly modded rifle.





	Elcors and Elephants

**Author's Note:**

> This piece doesn't really fit into anywhere specific in my writing timeline. If anywhere, it would take place before AVS and Bedroom Hymns, but this one has always felt too innocent to be lumped in with the other two. Scott is always the same in my writing, but the backstory slightly changes depending on the series/piece. Originally written back in 2017.

Attraction is a messy thing.

It carries no rhyme or reason and crashes down with no introduction. “Surprise!”, it shouts, and suddenly you are completely and utterly infatuated with no chance of turning back. It is inexplicably complicated - it doesn’t follow a pattern, it’s never logical, and it is rarely convenient. _Here, it’s your job to save this new and foreign galaxy from impending doom, but while that’s going on, you’re going to find yourself falling for Andromeda’s rising crime lord._

If someone had asked Scott when he found himself attracted to Reyes Vidal, he likely wouldn’t be able to give them a straight answer. Was it at, ‘You look like you’re waiting for someone?’, or was it when the bullet buried itself in Sloane’s gut? Was it when he noticed the way Reyes’ lips turned lopsided when he was truly amused, or was it when they spent an entire evening sharing a bottle of pilfered whiskey?

Even if they modified the question and asked what rather than when, his answer would still be scattered and likely incoherent. Was it his eyes, a mixture of gold and hazel that could shift from expressive to cold within seconds? Perhaps it was the line of his jaw, or the sensual curve of his lips. Was it the way he carried himself? (Scott eventually settled on fifty percent confidence, twenty percent amusement, and twenty percent pure trouble, after much deliberation.) Or perhaps the way he spoke with his hands, his fingers becoming extensions for expression?

_Was it deeper than the superficial?_

_Could it be more than a base attraction? _

These were the questions that hounded him in his quiet hours. Scott could only run from them for so long before his body let out and he needed to succumb. The more he avoided the situation, the louder his thoughts became – a relentless litany in the back of his mind as he travelled between planets and star systems. He’d asked SAM at one point if he had any control over them, but the AI had informed him that despite his many capabilities, blocking Scott’s own thoughts was beyond his technology.

At the end of the day, it boiled down to one thing – one ‘problem’, though he was reluctant to label it that way. It wasn’t the when or the what, but the _how_. How could he be attracted to Reyes Vidal?

The hang up, for lack of better terms, is that Scott had always believed himself to be straight. A straight-laced military boy who liked girls and appreciated a properly modded rifle.

Sure, there was that one time in a club on Omega, when maybe he shouldn’t have had that last shot of whatever asari liquor someone had passed his way, but could he really be blamed when he ended up in a darkened corner with the tech analysist who had shoulders for days? He’d sobered up when hands became too forward and made a hasty retreat, blaming alcohol and a low tolerance. There hadn’t been any witnesses, so no harm, no foul, right?

If only that had been the first and last time.

The difference between then and now was that Scott couldn’t brush these incidents off as a drunken ‘slip’. Incidents in the Milky Way happened once or twice a year and never with the same person. He didn’t purposely seek them out, again and again, and he most definitely did not spend time contemplating little details about their character. 

Which led him to his current predicament.

Scott didn’t consider himself to be coward – one might even argue that he was a bit of an adrenaline junkie – but when it came to matters concerning himself, he’d become a master at avoidance. There was never enough time in a day for self-reflection and critical analysis, and quite frankly, he never felt them worthy of his time. If he shoved the difficult thoughts aside or buried them beneath snarky comments, them would eventually go away.

Except when they wouldn’t.

* * *

Kadara is beautiful, once you get over the lingering smell of sulphur.

For a planet that houses such a violent population, it seems ironic that they are constantly bathed in a setting sun that paints the world magenta and gold. Wasn’t death supposed to be shades of black and crimson? Not pastel shades of pink and blues with picturesque clouds and scenic mountain views.

Scott tells himself it’s these ‘scenic views’ and the ‘crisp air’ that causes him to turn the Tempest Govorkam-bound whenever there’s a break in missions, when they need to sell scrap or pick up new tech. He tells a grumbling crew that it is essential they maintain ties with the port - a measure of good-will and a show of the Nexus’ willingness to extend an olive branch to the Exiles.

Or something like that.

It never explains why they always spend a minimum of three days on the planet - sometimes more - even when they can sell off their goods and have the Tempest refueled and ready to go in under three hours. It doesn’t explain why Scott always finds his feet leading him to the same haunts in a practiced schedule until finding a certain individual. Or how some nights he doesn’t sleep on the Tempest and refuses to offer any reasons on his return.

It’s different this time though.

This time when the ship lands on Kadara, Scott doesn’t try to mask his intentions behind random fetch missions and obligatory meetings. He’s here to find an answer, a resolution to the questions that have been eating away at him over the last few weeks. He’s here to face the elephant in the room, the elcor in the citadel – whatever idiom you wanted to use. There’s a space elephant in the room, and it begins and ends with Reyes Vidal.

It doesn’t take him long to find the man at the bar in Kralla’s song. Despite the unusually large crowd for the time of day, he homes in nearly immediately to a distinct combination of hair, clothing, and subtle swagger. Reyes Vidal does not just lean on the bar, he cocks his hip out with attitude and a projected something that Scott could only describe as a dare. It’s as if he’s daring the world to approach him without caution and discover the consequences. He’s idly typing away on his omni-tool, a drink at his elbow, and he looks bored.

It’s a sight for sore eyes.

Somehow Reyes has become a safe harbour – a hideaway from the duties and obligations that came with being a Pathfinder. He never expects anything, and asks for even less. For the short span that the Tempest is in port, Scott is simply himself, no titled attached, and it’s an absolute novelty.

With the generic techno music blasting loudly over the sound system, he sidles up the bar relatively unnoticed. All strangers are noted in Kadara Port, it doesn’t matter what uniform or insignia you are sporting – a stranger is a stranger until they’ve got a reputation that precedes them.

“Come here often?” Scott asks, leaning in to be heard over the din. He knows he’s smirking, and he can’t keep the amusement out of his voice. The line is so cheesy and so perfect he can’t help but be pleased with himself.

“It depends,” Reyes says slowly, turning around to face him, “Will you start coming around more?” He cocks his head and emphasizes the question with a deliberate gaze. Reyes is mentally undressing him, re-living previous visits and stolen moments, and despite the familiarity of it, Scott feels the beginnings of a flush emerge. _Score one for the smuggler_.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, signaling the ever-disgruntled Umi for a drink, “Will you make it worth my while?”

Reyes chuffs a laugh. “I’m sure that can be arranged.” He pulls up his omni-tool again, deftly paying for the drink and offering no comment on the gesture despite Scott’s raised brows. “How long are you in port this time,” he asks instead, motioning them over to the outlook.

“A few days. The usual.” Scott takes a long pull from his drink. “Making my rounds.” He shoots a glance at Reyes. There’s a question in there somewhere.

Reyes makes a non-committal sound and fingers his glass. “Would these rounds happen to lead you to a certain apartment in the port?” He takes a drink and looks away. His voice is low, and despite their proximity, to any bystanders they could almost pass as companionable strangers.

“I was counting on it,” Scott says. “If they’d have me,” he adds quietly, speaking into his cup and angling it slightly so the other man’s expression is reflected in the liquid. He’s suddenly abashed and wondering if he has been too presumptuous this time around. He never sends word in advance, and often it’s a last-minute decision, when the pressure becomes too much and Scott’s patience is barely hanging by a thread. And yet Reyes always finds the time.

Reyes taps a boot against his. “You don’t need you ask, you know,” he says when Scott meets his gaze. He’s smiling, and though his tone is borderline chiding, his eyes are crinkling in a way that makes Scott’s pulse quicken.

Scott kicks his boot back, and looks away again, an answering smile tugging on his lips. “I didn’t want to make assumptions.”

This was their dance: a constant back and forth riddled with underlying meanings, and a practiced air of nonchalance. From the outside they likely looked indifferent to one another, perhaps a quick meeting to exchange goods or information, but to anyone who paid careful attention they’d see the way that Scott could never fully look away, eyes always drawn back to linger on the other man while he spoke, or the way that Reyes would always angle his body in such a precise manner that if anything were to happen – as things do in Kadara Port – he’d be in front of the Scott and covering him within a heartbeat. 

Reyes snorts, as if he finds the statement offensive. “Are you busy for the rest of the day?”

“No, I cleared my schedule before coming here,” Scott says with a shake his head. He’s never filled out paperwork for Tann so quickly. His fingertips still ached from the force he used to type, and he’d barely managed a good-bye to Suvi and Kallo before rushing out and onto the tarmac of the dock. 

“Good,” Reyes says, and swallows the rest of his drink in one go. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What, no torture scheduled for today?”

Reyes tsks. “Honestly, Ryder. You _wound_ me.” He places gloved hands over his heart in a display of pure theatrics, and Scott rolls his eyes, the drama completely wasted on him. “Torture only happens on Mondays,” he says with a sigh, as if it is the most obvious fact in the world. The tone is light, but Scott senses a vague underlying truth to it.

He laughs this time.

* * *

It takes them an hour and three detours before they make it to the apartment overlooking the port.

The bachelor suite Reyes has selected is surprisingly humble, despite his status, and the room is sparsely furnished containing nothing but the essentials. There is a kitchen that remains mostly unused, a small sitting area with an impressive bar, and an area for the bed that leads to a bathroom. There are no personal touches, yet the space feels well lived-in. It carries a lingering scent of sleep and coffee, and datapads are always placed about the room in strategic piles. This is Reyes’ domain, his inner sanctuary, and Scott feels it reflects his character better than anything the man has ever said.

Scott remembers asking Reyes about the location, but he had been surprisingly vague. “I like the view,” he’d said simply and left it at that, neatly changing the subject until Scott forgot he even asked. And what a view it was. They’d spent more than one evening stretched out on the couch just watching the sky, tumblers of whiskey forgotten as they observed the slow descent of the sun to the horizon. 

The first half hour when Scott arrives is always the most uncomfortable, wrought with nerves and butterflies. Once Reyes has let them in and Scott’s wandered over to the bar to pour them drinks, there’s always the tense moments of ‘will he?’ or ‘should I?’. The protocols have never been explicitly stated. Sometimes they just talk for a bit, winding down and retelling events or stories from the past few weeks, enjoying the other’s commentary or unique takes on different situations. Other times they barely stumble through the door before shirts are off and hands are grabbing everywhere at once.

This time he’s come with a plan though, and the minute Reyes locks the door with a hiss, he’s on him, crowding his space and pressing him against the door with determination. It’s now or never, and the pep talk he had given himself on the flight over is beginning to wear off.

“Elcors and elephants,” Scott mutters before sealing their lips together roughly, fist gripping the collar of Reyes’ suit and using it as leverage to pull the man in.

Despite the ridiculousness of the statement, Reyes seems nonplussed – already somewhat accustomed to Scott’s particular brand of eccentricities – and allows it without question or pause, gloved hands coming up to remove Scott’s shirt in a practiced motion. Their lips meet again, and this time, there is an underlying urgency as lips part and tongues meet. The gloves come off next, followed by the top portion of Reyes’ outfit. Scott savours the sound of the zipper as he pulls it down, the other hand simultaneous pulling on one of the shoulders to expose more of Reyes’ chest.

There’s too many layers between them, and it needs to be remedied.

Reyes wordlessly directs them towards the bed, maintaining the kiss and working in tandem to remove layers and loosen belts, until Scott’s calves hit the bed with a _thunk_. They tumble onto the mattress in a heap, uncaring as they kiss with teeth and tongue, desperate in their attempts to touch each other everywhere at once. It isn’t eloquent or poetic, it’s sloppy and rough, and it feels amazing.

Scott is drowning in the heady taste of Reyes, chasing the unique combination with his tongue and delighting in every small gasp and noise he makes. He tastes of cigarette smoke and something that is so intrinsically masculine – Scott doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it. Reyes rolls his hips, pressing him into the mattress, and his exploration is halted, kisses turned to gasps and groans with each upward thrust of his hips.

“Please,” Scott moans, lust turning his thoughts hazy yet singular, unable to focus on anything but the need for release.

He can feel, rather than hear, Reyes chuckle from above him. He’s kissing his chest, marking a wet trail down past his navel and to the line of dark hairs leading to his groin. Desire courses through him, his cock twitching with each beat of his heart, as Reyes flicks open the top button of his pants and pulls them down to tangle at his ankles. Scott feels warm breath ghosting over his length through the material of his briefs, and the anticipation builds. He likes the direction they’re headed, but he’s yearning for something _more_. He wants to move past the blowjobs and frenzied make-out sessions. He wants to finally face the hang up head on - stare down the bloody elephant in the room.

“Reyes,” he pants, “Fuck me.”

And with those two words, the moment completely falls apart.

The pressure and warmth on his body disappears, and Scott is conscious of the absence like a bucket of freezing water. This isn’t the reaction he was expecting. Perhaps a grin, or a chuckle, or maybe even a snarky comment along the lines of ‘about time’. Anything but this.

Reyes is kneeling between his legs, gazing up at him with a mixture of caution and something that could only be described as predatory. He’s been surprisingly patient with him since they began this intricate pattern of sorts. Casual hook-up? Fling? Blowing off steam? They never breeched the topic of labels. There was the one conversation, when the Collective had officially taken over Kadara Port, but the actual words spoken had become a blur. Scott didn’t know where it had left them, and Reyes hadn’t brought it up again.

Scott understands their unspoken terms: when it comes to each other, they give what they can, and they take what’s given. He also knows that whatever this thing is, it’s always been about what Scott wants, what Scott is comfortable with. Reyes never pushed, never complained – fumbled attempts in the bedroom were met with good humor and grace, and moments of insecurity were met with soft touches or tactical retreats, depending on the tone of the evening.

Scott can see him watching him, assessing him carefully. Hesitance is clearly written on Reyes’ face, and it feels like a punch to the gut. He wonders what he sees. Flushed skin, mussed hair, and glazed eyes? Does he see his inexperience in the way he holds himself? Or does he see his nervousness in the way his fingers clench at the bedsheets? The sounds of the port slowly begin to trickle into his consciousness, and Scott pulls himself into sitting position. He feels exposed and vulnerable, but desire makes him resolute.

_In for a penny…_

Reyes sucks in a deep breath and slides his hands up and down Scott’s thighs, gently stroking the sensitive skin as he stares at him, considering. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

It’s a loaded question, and though Scott can feel a flush of embarrassment rising on his cheeks, he understands the necessity of it. Their first attempts had been miniature disasters, awkward apologies followed by hurried departures, and yet Scott would find himself inexplicably returning time and time again. For every step forward, Scott would later take two steps back. It wasn’t until the third time that Reyes had gently – albeit firmly – demanded an explanation for his erratic behaviour. It had taken a bottle of something strong, but eventually the words had come, and with them something to work with.

They had taken small steps after that conversation, returning to the beginning with tentative kisses and cautious touches as they mapped the planes of each other’s bodies anew, but those soon morphed into extended sessions that tasted like precious secrets and possibility. It had been surprisingly easy to give into his impulses and to stop over-analysing every less than perfect kiss with Reyes’ steady encouragement. They had been dancing around the subject for weeks now, toeing the line occasionally but never daring to cross it. Scott knows that Reyes had been trying to be cautious with him, slowly introducing him to different sensations and pleasures while gauging his reactions, and though he appreciates the careful consideration, he wants more. He _needs_ more.

And now he’s gone and asked for it, no preamble, no warning - nothing.

He pushes thoughts of their past aside and reaches out slowly, tracing fingertips down Reyes’ chest. He’s nervous, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever fully be ready, but it feels right. This right here? Just them in the apartment, bodies tangled together, and absolutely no boundaries between them? It feels more real and solid than anything else in Andromeda.

Scott watches the muscles in Reyes’ stomach clench as his fingers turn bold, trailing down to the edge of his briefs that are peeking out from unbuttoned pants. He could spend hours simply touching him, and he has, exploring and committing every mole, every scar, and every curve of muscle to memory. Where Scott is hard angles and defined lines, Reyes is lean muscle stretched tight over a solid frame. Where Scott blunts his razors on a weekly basis removing body hair, Reyes can barely grow stubble. For every similarity, there are at least two differences.

And he wants to learn each and every one of them.

Reyes takes a sharp intake of breath as his fingers brush the waistband, eyes shuttering briefly. The rewards of their activities had been admittedly one-sided up until now. Not from lack of trying on his part – Reyes had always gently brushed it off, claiming contentment in Scott’s reactions or saying, ‘next time’. Always ‘next time’.

He repeats the gesture slowly, listening as Reyes’ breathing hitches then becomes labored. He can see Reyes’ length straining beneath the thick fabric of his pants, and this time, when his fingers resume their exploration, he trails them down until they are resting against the hard length.

“I think we’ve waited long enough,” he says quietly, lightly curling his fingers around the bulge and giving it a gentle squeeze.

For one breath, Scott is sitting on the bed, Reyes looking up at him from under hooded eyes, the next he’s pressed into the mattress by the hard span of Reyes’ body. A small grunt escapes from him as Reyes’ mouth captures his own, searing and demanding as deft hands quickly dispose him of both pants and briefs. Reyes pulls back and stares.

And stares.

Scott can feel the blush marring his cheeks begin to migrate to his chest as the seconds pass.

“Like what you see?”

It’s meant to be coy, unashamed and confident in appearance, but his expression falters. He can feel his pulse fluttering at his throat. He feels like he’d thirteen again, crushed in a storage closet with Valerie Hendricks for _seven whole minutes_, and the feelings of self-doubt are overwhelming. The little voices in his head clamor, asking increasingly illogical and irrational questions. What if he isn’t very good? What if he disappoints him? Did Reyes actually want _him_, or was it simply a matter of sex?

Their eyes lock for the span of a few breaths. Beneath the whirring of the cooling unit, the room is silent. Reyes expression is open, but there’s a darkness in the depths that sends a shiver through him.

“Oh, Scott…” He pauses, licking his lips. “You have no idea.” He presses a kiss to the hollow of Scott’s throat where his pulse beats wildly. “You are stunning.” It is murmured softly, like a prayer during mass, and Scott feels the last of his self-consciousness crumble away. Little white lies will always exist between them, but this is not one of them. 

It hurts initially, discomfort clashing with pleasure, but Reyes’ touch is gentle as he guides Scott through the foreign sensations. Eventually, after what feels like either an eternity or an instant, the pleasure slowly begins to subdue his discomfort. He finds himself becoming lost in the small details – the slow drag of skin on skin, the labored rhythm of their breathing, and the quiet rustling of bedsheets. It is nothing he expected – more than just slick bodies and animalistic urges – it is breathtaking in its intimacy.

Above him, Reyes’ face is flushed, his lips swollen from their previous kisses, and Scott doesn’t think he’s ever looked more appealing. He doesn’t know why he’s spent so much time running. Running from this intimacy – _this connection_ – as if it would only weaken him or somehow make him less. Less of a man? Less of a person? The thought seems laughable now. If anything, he feels like more. So what if he likes both men and women? It isn’t life shattering, and it seems like such an insignificant detail now.

It’s amazing Reyes even had the patience to stick around for such a catastrophic fling.

The thought nags at him, echoing in his subconscious before the pieces start to fall together. Snippets of conversations and significant gazes that he has always brushed off or ignored come crashing back to him. This was never some random plunge. This coming together, this gradual dance between him and Reyes had been orchestrated from the very beginning.

He might have taken the decisive step at the end, but the time and place had already been decided well in advance. Reyes knew that if he set everything up _just so_, Scott would eventually do the of rest. He’d had known all along what he was doing. Reyes wasn’t hesitant because of Scott, he was hesitant because of the timing, and he didn’t want his careful planning to fail if he acted too soon. Patient? This wasn’t about patience. This was the long con.

And it is completely overwhelming.

It is with _this _realization, this realization that their set-up was never as casual as he led himself to believe, that he feels the tension in his body snap, followed by a shuddering release. Distantly Scott can feel a warmth splattering across his chest, but he’s too caught up in the hazel eyes that have caught his own. The realization must have dawned on his features at some point, because Reyes’ gaze is triumphant before it shutters closed at his own climax.

The ‘about time’ that wasn’t spoken earlier hangs in the musky air of the apartment like a punch line.

Reyes is panting quietly into his collarbone, hands splayed firmly across his hips, and Scott is tempted for a moment to fall asleep like this, but he can feel the mess cooling on his skin and questions are starting to surface. He doesn’t know where to begin.

“This was never a casual hook up, was it?” The question is tentative, barely above a whisper, yet it sounds harsh in the quiet of the room.

Reyes’ fingers flex on his hips momentarily, a sigh ghosting over his skin before a single syllable reaches his ears.

“No.”

Scott makes a noncommittal sound in response. It’s one thing to think something, it’s another to have it confirmed. When he makes no other comment, Reyes pushes off from him and reaches into the small table beside the bed. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and box of tissues, passing the latter to Scott and gesturing towards the sticky mess on his chest. His expression is guarded, and Scott wants to say something, but his conflicting feelings of amusement and annoyance leave him speechless.

Scott mutely takes the cloth and makes a half-hearted attempt to clean himself. Behind him he can hear the flick of a lighter, followed by a deep inhale. The smell of cigarette smoke slowly mingles with the scent of sex and sweat. Reyes sighs.

“I’m not interested in caging you. The Nexus tries hard enough as it is.” His tone is conversational and light, yet there is an underlying edge to it. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel strongly about you.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and the steady pattern of inhales and exhales are the only sounds in the room for some time.

“How long?”, Scott asks eventually, turning to look at him. _How long have you felt that way about me? How long have you been planning this? How long have you been waiting for me to turn to the same page?_

Reyes is propped up against the wall, legs crossed at his ankles and a cigarette dangling between loose fingers. He’s the picture of nonchalance – eyes half closed and inscrutable as tendrils of smoke curl around his head. He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering.

“Too long.”

“_Reyes_,” Scott drags the two syllables out, shooting him a pointed look. “That’s not an answer.”

Reyes chuffs a laugh without humor. Rather than respond, he gestures to the spot beside him on the bed. “Come sit with me.”

“I am.”

Reyes arches a brow. “Now who’s being obtuse?”

Scott mock sighs, but makes his way to the head of the bed and settles against him. A few moments pass before he wordlessly reaches out and begins to stroke Reyes’ forearm, fingers gliding against the sweat-slick skin. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s a start. There are things that need to be said, another conversation that is long over due. Scott tries to grasp for the words –_ they’re just words, damn it_ – but he might as well be reaching for the stars. Not impossible, but difficult.

“Rey- I-“, he swallows thickly. _Use your words, Scott._ “I know that this…” He makes an inarticulate gesture between them then sighs. “You’re a bastard,” he mutters darkly rather than voice the five-hundred other thoughts going through his head. The _ireallylikeyoutoo_ is left unspoken, but the implication is enough.

Reyes barks a laugh, and the tension leaves his body. He stubs the cigarette out on a nearby ashtray before turning to look at him.

Scott sucks in a breath to continue, a mixture of apologies and accusations forming on bruised lips, but a finger pressing against his mouth silences him. Reyes has leaned in, and he thinks he may be seeing him clearly for the first time. This wasn’t the Charlatan, or the smuggler, or even the Nexus exile. This was just Reyes. His hair – usually slicked back and combed perfectly – is in an absolute disarray, sticking up at rough angles, and a sly smile is tugging on the curve of his lips. Scott can faintly make out red scratch marks criss-crossing across the other man’s chest, and he realizes belatedly that he’s looking at his own handiwork. Reyes doesn’t speak again until he has Scott’s full, undivided attention, and the jumbled thoughts have quieted to a dull hum in the background.

“But a handsome one?” he asks. His eyes are nearly feline in their satisfaction.

Scott smack’s Reyes’ chest weakly. “You know the answer to that already.” He crosses his arms and looks away. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a bastard.” A pause. “Well,” he amends, “my bastard.” And its his turn to shoot Reyes a sly smile.

Scott doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so damn pleased with themselves before. Scott smacks Reyes’ chest again for good measure, putting all of the words he can’t yet bring himself to say into the gentle _thunk_, and Reyes laughs again before quieting.

After a moment, he speaks up, running a hand through his hair and looking away.

“I’m not a good man.”

“I know,” Scott answers.

“And yet?”

“And yet.”


End file.
